


Gloomy Sunday

by AliceMarylin1999



Series: Screaming Void [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Forbidden Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Poetic, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 17:56:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20451209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceMarylin1999/pseuds/AliceMarylin1999
Summary: It's the year 2003. Aziraphale and Crowley have been in love for centuries now but only in the past few decades, they have been aware of what's going on between them. As they meet during a jazz concert and secretly hold hands, their feelings become too strong to be repressed, but too inappropriate for them yet to be open.





	Gloomy Sunday

Aziraphale was never a jazz fan, to be perfectly frank. He’d been to some of the early jazz shows when he traveled to America, but that was a long, long time ago.

Yet for some reason, as he was wandering through streets of London on one chilly August evening of the year 2003, when he saw a poster of a “Greatest Jazz Hits of All Times” concert in some small pub he’d never been to, he decided to come in. He was a bit cold and feeling blue, and listening to jazz while drinking fine whiskey seemed like a nice idea.

The hall was already dark, and the show had already been started. Many listeners were paying little attention to the stage, chatting and drinking, while some seemed to enjoy the music. Aziraphale occupied a spare table in the middle of a hall, ordered some whiskey and got lost in his own thoughts, his eyes defocused. He was reminiscing about many things, all at once and nothing in particular. It all got mixed in his head – centuries of human history, the places he’d been to, Crowley, wars, revolutions, his struggle with himself. He closed his eyes and let himself be free, for once, of all those memories and burdens, and then he opened them once again and started studying the people sitting around him, as some unfamiliar music was flowing in the background. One male figure caught his eye – a slim man in a jacket sitting alone in a front row, with extremely acute shoulders. He couldn’t see his face, but the shape of his body, especially his long hands twisting an empty glass in his hands, looked very elegant against the light of the stage.

“He looks very much like Crowley” – Aziraphale thought. The thought of Crowley stung in his heart. Things had been complicated between them for several decades now, and still, they met more frequently since the Blitz then they had ever done before. Aziraphale knew very well that he loved Crowley – deeply, madly, desperately. He had known it since 1941 and had enough time to get used to this thought. He disobeyed Heaven for Crowley’s sake by the end of the 1960s when he brought him holy water, something Crowley desperately needed and something that could just as well destroy him.

He knew that Crowley felt something as well. He didn’t want to believe it at first, but there was no mistaking. The last few decades had been torture for Aziraphale. Crowley and he met at least a couple of times a year, there were times when they met every month, and there were times when they met every day for weeks. The more frequently they met, the harder it was for either of them to keep a distance for the necessary time. And that distance was inevitable. They were watched, negligently, but still watched. They couldn’t do what they both seemed to long to be doing… Or what it seemed they both longed for, anyway.

Crowley never spoke a word of his feelings. He wasn’t a particularly talkative kind. His hands, though, his hands spoke vividly. The first time he took Aziraphale’s hand was not long after Aziraphale gave him holy water. They were having dinner at some Chinese restaurant in the middle of nowhere, and all of a sudden, without saying a word, Crowley put his hand on top of Aziraphale’s right on the table. He leaned closer, as if he wanted to kiss him, but stopped. As shocked as Aziraphale was, he took his hand. He couldn’t resist it. They spent the rest of the evening in silence until they both had to leave.

Whenever Crowley and he were in crowded places, Crowley always took it as an opportunity to hold Aziraphale close to himself. It was all part of their game, and they both knew perfectly well why they attended so many festivals, rock open-air gigs (some of which were true torture for their ears), charity markets, and all parades.

Half a year ago, as they were pressed to each other at another crowdy festival, Crowley stealthily kisses Aziraphale on the nape, as he was standing behind him. Aziraphale didn’t know what he felt – the bliss or the agony, or both at the same measure, but he didn’t protest. And after that, each time they met, Crowley tried to seize the moment to plant a secret kiss on his cheek, or hand, or nape, or even neck – something that made Aziraphale scream internally from both pain and pleasure. They never spoke of it. They knew that words were more dangerous than kisses. 

They also knew that if they wanted, they could go further and make it so discreetly so no one would see them. But they never did. They were long enough on earth to make it secret, whatever they wanted to do. And yet they knew that once they cross a certain line, they won’t be able to stop and tear themselves apart. They both knew, that, in fact, they shouldn’t have been embracing secretly, holding hands secretly, even seeing each other at all. They knew it from the very start, but couldn’t stop. Aziraphale knew that each time he let Crowley touch his hand or kiss him on the cheek, he was making a tiny step towards his own demise. He knew he was doomed, they both were doomed. He felt himself drowning. But he couldn’t stop. They both couldn’t stop. Sometimes he closed his eyes and saw them both in Crowley’s black Bentley, driving towards the cliff. That’s what they were doing. That’s what their future was.

The man turned around in his direction. Aziraphale still couldn’t see his face, but the man probably saw his. The man stood up and started walking towards Aziraphale’s table, trying to squeeze between the lines of tables. Aziraphale’s heart sank. Of course, it was Crowley. No one else in this world walked like Crowley. Aziraphale closed his eyes, sighing.

"You like it here?" – he heard Crowley’s soft voice above his ear.

He opened his eyes and saw that Crowley was now leaning towards him, sitting across the table. He was wearing new dark glasses, which suited him well. But not as well as no cover at all. Aziraphale didn’t answer, but smiled and put his hand under the table. Within less than a second, Crowley’s hand grabbed his, like poisonous flower catches a fly. Crowley moved his chair closer, without letting go of his hand.

"You see that girl over there?" – Crowley nodded in the direction of a stage, where a young black singer was preparing her microphone. – "She’s gonna sing Gloomy Sunday. I like Gloomy Sunday".

"In Hungarian?" – Aziraphale asked, turning his head to Crowley, who was now inches away from him.

"Nah" – Crowley smiled. – "Just old English".

Crowley leaned even closer, as the band started playing. Aziraphale closed his eyes and listened to the girl singing

_Sunday is gloomy,_  
_ My hours are slumberless,_  
_ Dearest the shadows_  
_ I live with are numberless_  
_ Little white flowers will_  
_ never awaken you_  
_ Not where the black coach_  
_ of sorrow has taken you_

Crowley put his other hand on Aziraphale’s lap, moving his head closer. Now his forehead touched Aziraphale’s temple.

  
_ Angels have no thought of_  
_ ever returning you_  
_ Would they be angry_  
_ if I thought of joining you_  
_ Gloomy Sunday._

"Whoever wrote it knew a thing or two about your lot, angel" - he whispered in Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale didn’t answer, but squeezed Crowley’s hand in one of his hands, and put the other above Crowley’s on his lap.

They both closed their eyes and listened to their breath and the song behind them

_Darling,__ I hope that my dream_  
_never haunted you_  
_ My heart is telling you_  
_ how much I wanted you_

Aziraphale couldn’t tell how many minutes have passed, but he was brought back to reality when he saw a bright light through his eyelids. He opened his eyes. Crowley was now standing at arm’s length to him. He mastered the art of lurking a long time ago.

"It’s time for intermission. I wanna go outside" – Crowley said.

"I’ll go with you, Crowley" – Aziraphale said. – "I’m not in a mood for staying up late".

They both left pub from the backdoor, that led to an archway in a small lane. It was already dark. Crowley leaned his back against the wall, lazily. Aziraphale looked around. It was quiet.

"So, Gloomy Sunday. I really enjoyed it. Sounded very… Fresh" – Aziraphale started. – "It used to be called “The Hungarian Suicide Song” back in the days. They say a lot of people committed suicide because of that song. Or so it was believed".

"Nonsense" – Crowley said with a scoff. - "I don't believe anyone would end his life because of a song. Have you been to Hungary?"

"I have". 

"When?"

"In the early 1800s, I believe" – Aziraphale wasn’t sure. - "I liked it there. Especially the pastry…"

"Well, I've seen it right before the second war started" – Crowley answered with a sigh. - "Trust me, if a bunch of Hungarians killed themselves back then, I wouldn’t blame the song".

"But if the song was so gloomy it might've been the last straw". – said Aziraphale, now feeling gloomy himself.

"Ugh, I don't know" – Crowley made a careless gesture with his hand. - "I don't believe that". 

They both fell silent.

"I can't understand why would any human want to end their life" - Aziraphale said, suddenly agitated. - "Their lives are so short already! I had a tailor once, he made me a coat. I liked it, the coat, very much, but after a time I've... Lost some weight, I'll put it that way, and wanted to adjust it a little bit, and I looked for that particular young man. It took me some time to realize he wasn't a young man any longer - it had been 60 years and he had been dead for at least a decade. My coat was in an impeccable condition. But the man had already died".

"Well, yes" – Crowley said, stretching his neck back, leaning his head against the wall. - "We've got used to longer periods. We can move at our own pace" - Crowley lowered his head once again and seemed to look more closely at Aziraphale. - "And even that may seem too fast. For some".

Aziraphale didn't know what to say. He moved to the wall himself, standing by the right side of Crowley. Crowley pulled himself off the wall to stand in front of Aziraphale. He kept his distance, no shorter than arm’s length.

"You know, maybe some people don't know the purpose of their lives" – Aziraphale continued. - "Don't know the higher purpose. They don't know God is there. And that can be very frustrating. Especially when they lose something important"

"Like what?" - Crowley asked, his lips twitching.

"Like someone they love".

Crowley lowered his head, let out a quiet sigh and took his glasses off.

"And you believe that?" - He looked very serious, his yellow eyes piercing him all the way through his head.

"I don't think it's a good idea to kill yourself because of love. You should live for your loved ones, try to do good for their sake. Even if you can't be together" - Aziraphale felt a lump in his throat. - "Not ever".

"You told me you liked that Shakespeare's bloody little play" - Crowley smiled sadly. - "Romeo and Juliette. They both did exactly that thing in the end. I told you it was stupid. And I stand by it. It is damn stupid".

"Well, I did like the language" - Aziraphale said nervously. - "I liked the way Shakespeare put those feeling into words".

"What kind of feelings?" – Crowley swayed his head a little bit.

"When your entire world is filled with love for someone" - Aziraphale said, with his voice slightly trembling - And you want to challenge death itself to be with that person.

"I don't think he did a good job at all" - Crowley sneered. - "I don't think he even knew the first thing about what he was writing".

"We all feel differently, Crowley" - Aziraphale answered, looking at Crowley with a mix of confusing feelings. - "We all battle our feelings differently".

"Why battle at all?" - Crowley asked gloomily. 

"Sometimes there is no choice".

"Bollocks. There always is a choice" - Crowley's voice was sharp and cutting. - "The question is, what do you really want". 

"You're too harsh, Crowley. Most of us don't know what we want".

"I do" - Crowley said, his voice a bit harsh indeed.

Aziraphale looked in his eyes in agony.

"What, you're gonna leave now?" - Crowley asked, looking a bit lost.

"No" - Aziraphale didn't know what to say to ease the tension. – "I think I saw you smoking. Do you smoke now?" 

"Not really. But in right circumstances..." - he pulled a cigarette case out of his jacket's pocket. - "These are from France. Fine, they say. Cherry flavor. Still leaves a somewhat bitter taste in your mouth" - Crowley opened the case. – "But in the end, what doesn't?"

"Indeed" - Aziraphale said with a sad smile in a corner of his mouth.

"Be my guest" - Crowley handed him an open cigarette case. 

"Thank you" - Aziraphale pulled out a cigarette, and their hands touched for a moment.

Crowley pulled out a silver lighter out of his pocket and gave him a smoke. Their fingers touched again, then Crowley pulled his hand away and put it to his pocket. Aziraphale slowly inhaled smoke. He exhaled it slowly too while tilting his head up.

"You don't want one, Crowley?"

Crowley made a step up and took a cigarette from Aziraphale's hand. Their fingers touched once more. He inhaled, his lips bracing a cigarette like it was a kiss. He raised his head and turned it to one side, exhaling smoke.

"Shall I give it back to you?" - Crowley asked.

"No, I don't think I want to smoke any more".

"That's good. The smell of smoke does not suit you" - Crowley turned around, extinguishing the cigarette by the side of a trash can, then throwing it away. He stepped closer to Aziraphale, they were now mere inches away and lowered his head. 

"These cigarettes smell of cherry. I find it nice" - Aziraphale smiled shyly.

"Still. Not you. Too heavy". 

Aziraphale pressed his back against the wall, and Crowley stepped closer. They were silent and Aziraphale could hear his heart beating. 

Crowley touched his index finger with his own, looking down. Then the middle finger, then he stroke his whole hand with his own. Aziraphale felt a shiver down his spine. Then their finger intertwined. His breath became heavier. Crowley looked on the floor, ginger eyelashes gently trembling. 

"You know, angel, I helped build some of the galaxies" - he said softly.

"You never told me" – Aziraphale answered, genuinely surprised.

"I did" – Crowley smiled. - "Back in the days. Before I fell".

"Are they beautiful?"

"They are. There are even places suitable for living. But no one lives there. No one. Not yet" - Crowley raised his eyes. - "No one knows where those places are. No one but me".

"I wish I could see those places. I'm sure they are very beautiful" - Aziraphale said nervously.

"They are. Beautiful. Stunning" - Crowley said, dreamily. Aziraphale wasn't sure he was talking about the planets anymore. - "I don't think Gabriel or Hastur can find those places" - There was a strange hope in his eyes, but then he lowered them once again - "But we belong here, right?"

"Well, yes. Only..." - Aziraphale couldn't finish.

"Only we belong somewhere... Else. In fact" - Crowley finished for him.

"I have to admit I love this planet" - Aziraphale said.

"Of course, you do" - Crowley said with a sad smile. - "You gave your sword away for its people". 

"Was that when we first met?" – Aziraphale smiled fondly.

"Yes" - Crowley smiled sadly. - "I was Crawly back then. A snake".

"I remember. A large snake. Black scales".

"Perhaps, I should've stayed a snake, no? They have rather simple lives, snakes" - Crowley smirked, but his eyes were not smiling.

"No, Crowley. I don't think you should've stayed a snake".

Crowley put his hand on a wall near Aziraphale, leaning closer. Aziraphale pulled himself off the wall and put both his hands on Crowley's jacket. His face was now so close to Crowley's neck, he felt the warmth of his skin. Crowley gently put his hands on Aziraphale's arms.

"You want to leave?"

"No".

"You want to stay?"

"I don't know..."

"What is it that you want?" - Crowley said, with a hint of irritation in his voice. Somehow Aziraphale knew he didn't mean leaving or staying at a party.

"I think I'm cold" - he managed to say. 

"I'll give you my jacket" - Crowley answered immediately. 

"Don't embarrass me, Crowley" - Aziraphale answered, his voice breaking from all the anxiety he was feeling. - "You know I'll never fit in your jacket". 

"You'll fit in my scarf then" - Crowley opened his bag and took a black wool scarf. - "It's soft, don't worry". 

Crowley carefully wrapped his scarf around Aziraphale's neck. The scarf smelled of Crowley's hair. Aziraphale raised his head, now being so close to Crowley's face their noses almost touched. Aziraphale couldn't think straight anymore, and as he closed his eyes and pushed himself closer, he felt Crowley's arms hold him in a tender embrace and his lips on his own, kissing him gently. He couldn't move, and he couldn't even kiss Crowley back, as much as he wanted to, he only pushed himself as close as he could to Crowley's chest and put his arms on Crowley's back. Crowley held him carefully, planting soft kisses on his lips, his cheeks, his chin, his closed eyes. He could smell and taste the traces of a cigarette, but underneath it, it was Crowley's scent and his taste. His taste was red, just like his hair. Crowley stopped the kiss, pressing his forehead against Aziraphale's.

"Do you want me to stop?" - Crowley whispered.

"No. No..." - Aziraphale said, as he held Crowley closer and kissed him back, melting from the softness of Crowley's touch. He felt like he was drowning. But he didn’t want to be saved.

Then they both heard laughter and footsteps approaching them. Their embrace broke abruptly, as Crowley stepped back and hastily put his eyeglasses back on. A company of a few men and one woman walked out of the club, talking loudly. 

"Sorry to bother you, sir, do you happen to have a lighter?" - one of them asked.

Crowley silently threw him his lighter without as much as moving a muscle on his face. The man caught it, but didn't take any chances, and, after he lit his cigarette, leaned over and gave it back to Crowley.

"Thank you" - he said.

"You're welcome" - Crowley answered emotionlessly. 

Aziraphale still couldn't speak properly, but he somehow managed to say:

"I think it's time for me to leave".

"I'll give you a lift" - Crowley's voice sounded worried.

"Thank you, but no. I'll take a cab. You've been drinking".

"I can... Undo it, you know. Come on, I don't trust those taxi drivers".

"I'll be fine, I promise. I might even take a bus".

"Angel".

"I'm sorry, Crowley. I really do have to go".

He turned around and went from the lane to the street.

"Wait for me. I'll take a cab too". - he heard Crowley's voice. 

Crowley quickly caught up, and soon enough was walking by his side. They walked in silence from the club to the nearest alley, but when they reached the dark and silent part of the street, where no one seemed to be around them, Crowley stopped. Aziraphale had to stop too, turning his face to him. Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale's arm.

"Angel..." - he started.

"What? What is it, Crowley?" - Aziraphale tried to keep his voice down, but his agitation broke through anyway. - "Please, don't touch me like that, it's too..."

"No one's here. It's late. Come on" - Crowley grabbed him by the hand and walked to a dark lane. - "There's no one here. No one".

Crowley let go of his hand and stood in silence. Aziraphale couldn't say a word. 

He heard Crowley sigh. Crowley lowered his head and carefully kissed Aziraphale on the lips. Aziraphale welcomed that kiss, but was too scared to do anything, and simply stepped back, leaving Crowley disoriented. 

"A'right. A'right. Let's go" - Crowley said at last. - "I know a place nearby, you can find a cab at any time".

He walked out of the lane and silently walked down the street, a little bit too fast, so Aziraphale could barely catch up. Within several minutes they reached the street.

"See, angel" - Crowley said, sounding desperate to be casual - "There's the place where all the cabs park. See?"

"Yes, I see. Thank you" - Aziraphale answered.

"Do you have cash?"

"I do, thank you. Goodnight, Crowley".

He turned around but as he did it, he felt unbearable pain inside his chest and stomach. He stopped. Then he turned back. Crowley was still there. 

"Crowley" - he said softly, - "I'm sorry. You know that I have to go. You know I can't stay".

"Why not?" - Crowley asked with something bitter and weary in his voice.

"I can't".

"Do you want to?"

"Crowley... Please".

"We can walk all night" - Crowley said, with a hint of hope in his voice. - "Or drive to my place. I have plenty of room".

"No, we can't" - Aziraphale cut him off. - "It's not possible".

"Says who?" - Crowley sounded irritated.

"Please..." - Aziraphale didn't know what to say. 

"Why did you stop, then?" - Crowley tried to sound chill, but Aziraphale could hear disappointment and pain in his voice.

"I couldn't leave you like that. Without a word". 

"A'right. You said a few words. Thank you for tha"t. - he said bitterly.

"Crowley, please" - Aziraphale prayed for this conversation to stop. - "It's hard enough". 

"What do you want me to do, angel?" - there was no irritation left in Crowley's voice, only exhaustion. 

"I don't know. I don't know... I'm sorry". 

"Take your cab, angel. Better forget. Go on, it's late. It's late" - Crowley managed to sound cool again, but Aziraphale knew he was in pain, and that pained him even more.

"I won't forget. I won’t ever forget… but I CAN'T" - Aziraphale felt so much weariness he could barely speak. - "Crowley, please. I can't..."

Crowley took a 100£ banknote out of his pocket and pressed it into Aziraphale's hand. 

"Drivers tend to charge extra at this hour. It might be way too expensive. Take a cab, go home. Don't worry about money, you'll buy me dinner some time. If you want. See you".

Crowley turned around and paced away down the street, without looking back. Aziraphale was lost for at least some minutes, breathing in Crowley’s scent from his scarf and feeling the taste of his kiss on his lips. He walked past the cabs, as he didn’t want to drive home. He walked all the way back to his bookshop, still reliving all that happened. It was a dark and cold Sunday night.


End file.
